Guided by reason’s powerless rays alone,
Would pierce the veil of mystery round Thee thrown.
Tell me, proud being!—flutterer of an hour—
(Who thus would comprehend creative power),
Why worlds were made, why man was formed at all,
Or crimeless once, permitted then to fall,
The why, the wherefore, boots not us to know,
Enough—that God ordained it to be so.
Go thou, and cull the simplest flower that blows,
The hillside daisy or the wilding rose,